


Yule Better Watch Out

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: Team No Chill [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Eggnog, Gen, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21867301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: Left a good cooler in BabySoakin' in the eggnog ev'ry night and dayAnd they know there's a monster's that's been creepin'Worried 'bout all the people that it's killin'Baby's wheels keep on turnin'Proud Mac keeps on churnin'Prayin', prayin', prayin' to the Yule god
Relationships: Coleman Cooler & Impala & Sam Winchester's Laptop, Coleman Cooler & Impala (Supernatural), Coleman Cooler & Sam Winchester's Laptop
Series: Team No Chill [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/801555
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: SPNColdestHits





	Yule Better Watch Out

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a huge thank you to grey2510 for the absolutely perfect summary. I finished writing the story and had no creative juice left.
> 
> The fic takes place in season 11, but there's no references to anything going on in canon. That's just where it fits in the timeline.

After adorning every surface in the house with tinsel and mistletoe, Trish admires her handiwork. She’d had to stand on a few chairs to get things in place, but it’s finally perfect. The table is laid out with deli meats, veggies and dip, and the biggest cheese platter she could find at Kroger five minutes before closing.

“Lookin’ great, babe.” Arms wrap around her waist from behind, and Josh whispers in her ear, “I tried to wait until you were standing under the mistletoe, but I’m an impatient guy.”

Twisting around just enough to kiss him, Trish allows herself to melt into her boyfriend’s arms, just for a minute. “That’s okay, the mistletoe won’t mind.”

She gets to enjoy less than the minute she allowed before there’s a knock at the door. Sighing, she pulls away and straightens her clothes before going to answer it, reminding herself that she’s been looking forward to spending the holidays with all their friends. Besides, the party’s only going to last a few hours, and then she’ll have all night to drag Josh upstairs with some mistletoe.

Sending Josh to go build up the fire, Trish answers the door. “Happy holidays!”

“Happy holidays, Trishie!” Lexie replies, handing over a cake. “I hope that’ll be big enough for all of us. I almost didn’t get it. It was the last Yule Log at Kroger and I didn’t think to pick one up until this morning.”

Just behind her, Hayden hefts a case of Budweiser. “Lucky for us, I grabbed the beer yesterday.”

Cradling the cake in her arms, Trish tries not to shout, though it’s awfully tempting. “Hayden, it’s supposed to be mead. We can’t celebrate the holiday with _beer_. It’s not right!”

“Mead, beer, who cares? The point is to get drunk, right? C’mon, let’s crack this open and get a head start.” Hayden tries to squeeze past Trish through a space that isn’t big enough for him, leading the way with the beer and pushing her aside.

Following Hayden, Lexie giggles. “This is gonna be so much fun, Trishie! I’m so glad you invited us.”

Trish closes the door behind them and stifles a sigh. She’s beginning to wish she’d celebrated alone with Josh.

She’s barely taken a step away when there’s another knock at the door. Handing the cake back to Lexie, Trish waves her off in the direction of the kitchen before turning back to answer the door again.

The man at the door is no one she recognizes, but his costume is amazing. His long white beard is so much better than any fake shopping mall Santa crap, hanging straight down instead of whatever shiny curls people seem to expect these days. He holds a tall, straight walking stick, and though his clothes look fairly simple, his grey robe and blue hooded cloak look old timey authentic. The hood of his cloak casts his face in shadow, obscuring his features.

It’s all so good, Trish can’t help but shiver. “Wow, nice costume. Happy holidays! Lexie and Hayden are already here, so…” She runs over the guest list in her head. “Damn, I still don’t know who you are. It’s supposed to be a pot luck though, and I don’t see you holding anything besides that stick. Did you forget?”

Quick as lightning, the hooded man takes his stick in both hands and thrusts it into her chest. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up, her legs refusing to support her so she crumples to the floor, gasping as the pain registers.

The man steps over Trish to enter. Her eyesight dims and the last thing she hears is, “I forget nothing.”

*

“Hello? Yes, Detective Price here. What can I do for you, Sheriff?” Dean makes appropriate listening noises into the phone. “Another one? Alright, on our way.”

Coleman isn’t close enough to the front seat to overhear what is said on the other end of the phone, but from the sounds of things he’d have to guess it’s another of the holiday murders they’ve been investigating. _Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’ve been full of eggnog all day, but I can’t remember. Why is this our kind of thing again?_

Mac is a laptop and therefore can’t sigh, but somehow he still manages to convey the sense of it. _The people dying are all mid-to-upper class white people, killed while celebrating the holidays, stabbed by something round and pointy, which you knew, and—_

_Yeah, I know that, but why’s this us?_

_As I was saying, every house with a massacre has hoofprints on the rooftop._

_Oh. Okay, yeah, that’d do it._ Coleman tries to clear his head, but only manages to ripple the surface of the eggnog inside him. _So who pissed off Santa? Or was it Rudolph?_

Baby chuckles, a slight change in her usual vibrations. _I think I like you better tipsy, Coleman._

_And I love you, Baby. Can you change the radio to Christmas music? I’m feelin’ festive._

_Yeah…I don’t think so. Not until the guys are out of the car, at least. I’ll hook you up when they go check out the crime scene._

_You’re the best, Baby._

*

The sound of Baby’s doors closing jostles Coleman out of the haze he’s been drifting in since “Silver Bells” lulled him off to dreamland. He’s a cooler, so he doesn’t exactly sleep, but he’s been known to tune out from time to time. Hopefully nobody noticed.

 _Good morning, Sunshine!_ Baby singsongs sweetly. _Up and at ‘em! Time to face the day! Rev those engines!_

Despite his nap, Coleman still feels sloshy. _I don’t have engines. Or do I? Do I have engines now?_

 _Shut up,_ Mac growls from under Sam’s seat. _They’re talking about the case._

Coleman is only too glad to be quiet if it means Mac and Baby are quiet, too. It’s hard enough to focus without someone else talking, and he’d really like to know what’s going on.

“ —don’t know what to make of those tracks,” Sam says. “I don’t think it’s one animal walking over the tracks of another. It looks more like something with too many legs.”

Dean shudders. “Why can’t we live in a world where that isn’t a thing?”

Coleman doesn’t know what they’re talking about, but he thinks it’d be nice to have legs, and that it’s unfair a monster should get too many.

How Baby manages to convey a shrug is a mystery he might never solve. _Take it up with Chuck. He’s the one who decided you should be a cooler and not a zillion-legged monster._

_Stupid Chuck._

“I dunno, Dean,” replies Sam. “God’s a dick. I do know we’ve gotta figure out what’s making these tracks, so how about you find somewhere with wi-fi.”

“Yeah yeah, don’t get your panties in a bunch. We passed a motel on the way into town.”

_Oooh, keep us updated, Mac!_

_I always do._

Coleman gives up on trying to follow the conversation and instead imagines what it’d be like to have legs. He could step outside and enjoy a nice shower if someone left something inside him for too long, or even follow the guys inside after a case to celebrate with a beer. Yeah, legs would be nice.

*

Jaxson is having a hard time falling asleep. He doesn’t usually have any trouble sleeping, but his parents are being too loud downstairs, talking and laughing with their friends. So far, even hugging his teddy bear hasn’t helped.

He wishes he had thought to ask his mommy for a story. She’d been busy getting everything ready for a “no kids” party, but maybe if he’d asked nicely she might’ve read him something and then he would’ve had something good to think about. Maybe if he’s careful he can sneak out of bed long enough to get a book from the playroom. He can’t read many words yet, but he can look at the pictures and make up his own story.

Proud of himself for coming up with a good idea, Jaxson slips out from under the covers and tiptoes to the door. He’s not too worried about being caught — everyone downstairs is being so very loud — but he still peeks out into the hall with the door barely open to check for adults.

No one’s there. Feeling a little more confident, Jaxson opens the door all the way and darts out, tiptoe-running all the way to his playroom at the end of the hall. Another surge of laughter from below startles him into a full run for the last couple steps, but nobody comes to stop him.

Everything looks different in the soft glow of the nightlight. Shadows hide some things and make other things bigger, and all the colours are gone. Jaxson has never been scared of the dark, but shadows can look like monsters.

Keeping an eye on the most menacing of the shadows, Jaxson hurries to the bookshelf. He can’t see the covers in the dark, but he can check each one next to the nightlight. They’re like familiar friends coming out of hiding when he sees them in the light. Clifford, Franklin, the Berenstain Bears, it’s so hard to choose just one to take back to his room.

It takes awhile for the change to register, but when it does, Jaxson drops his books on the floor. People aren’t being loud anymore. There’s only a sort of muffled sound, like people talking too softly to hear.

Quiet is bad. Quiet means they might hear him. Someone might come upstairs and find him out of bed and punish him. He has just enough time to pick a book at random and cram the others back on the shelf before the screaming starts.

He’s only ever heard Mommy scream at Daddy when she’s angry about something, but it’s a different kind of scream now. It’s the kind of scream that makes Jaxson run and hide in his toy box. It only takes a moment to dig out Mister Bunny from under the other toys and climb in the box, hugging his best friend. He doesn’t even care that it’s not comfortable to sit on his dump truck, as long as nobody finds him.

Inside the box he’s safe and warm. Mister Bunny is soft and cuddly and makes an okay pillow. Best of all, for the first time all night, it’s quiet. The big toy box lid muffles all the downstairs noises, letting Jaxson finally drift off to sleep.

It’s the light that wakes him up. Waking up in the box feels like a dream, but dreams don’t have poky dump trucks in uncomfortable places. At least, he’s pretty sure they don’t, but he can’t know for sure because the one-eyed Santa wizard who woke him up really looks like he belongs in a dream.

“Ah, there you are,” says the Santa wizard. “I thought there was one more.”

Jaxson tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes. “Mister Santa wizard, I know I haven’t been _all_ good this year, but for Christmas can you make my mommy and daddy stop fighting? Please?”

Santa wizard chuckles and lifts Jaxson out of the box, carrying him to his bedroom. “I promise your parents will never fight again.”

*

Sam and Dean settle into their seats after investigating the latest deaths. Closing their doors makes Baby shake a little, which makes Coleman queasy. He doesn’t even have a stomach to feel sick, but he guesses too much eggnog is bad for anyone.

_Not all that it’s cracked up to be?_

_Ugh, that’s terrible, Baby. It’s too early for bad puns._

_Hey, my puns beat your puns any day._

Coleman feels too miserable to argue. He’s been marinating in eggnog for days and still nobody has thought to check on him. In fairness, it’s cold enough outside that they don’t need him to keep things cool, but that means his lid has been closed with eggnog spilled inside him for— He tries to count how many days it’s been, but he can’t remember anymore.

Mac pipes up from under Sam’s seat, his voice annoyingly upbeat. _It’s been four days, nine hours, and twenty-three minutes since Sam forgot he left eggnog in you. It was supposed to be for a Christmas party with Jody’s crew, but then this case popped up and he was disappointed, so he forgot._

_Four days of nog? No wonder I’m blitzed. Hey, blitzed, Blitzen. Santa’s reindeer are party animals._

_They might also be accessories to murder,_ growls Baby, her engine revving as they head back to the motel. _A little boy lost his parents last night. Same stab wounds, same hoofprints._

_Wait, I thought— Maybe I’m just sloshed, but I thought the thing had too many legs. Does that mean Santa’s reindeer have a zillion legs?_

_No, we’ve eliminated that possibility,_ says Mac. _The guys interviewed the kid and if you’d been paying attention you’d know that the killer has one eye._

Coleman has no idea how that’s important, but he’s thinking about having legs again. If he had legs, he could dump out all the eggnog and maybe sober up.

_Alright Mac, Coleman’s incapable of useful thoughts and I am but a simple car who was busy listening to the drunken cooler. What did you or the guys figure out?_

Obviously excited, Mac’s internal whatevers make power up noises. _At first it was too hard to search through all the possible hooved creatures, but combine that with a dude who only has one eye? A man who the kid described as a “pirate Santa wizard”? There’s only one possibility: Odin._

 _Wait wait wait,_ says Coleman. _I know it was a long time ago and you weren’t — at least I think you weren’t there. It was, like, forever ago, but didn’t Odin get dead?_

 _That’s what Dean said, but Sam pointed out that Odin has many names and could thus be separate gods, or at least different aspects of the same god. Maybe only one part of Odin died years ago, leaving his_ jólfaðr _or “Yule father” aspect free to do whatever._

Coleman wishes he had eyes so he could close them and maybe make the world stop spinning. _That makes no sense and it’s making me dizzy. If I had a mouth and a stomach, I’d probably be sick on the floor._

 _No no, I see what you’re saying,_ says the annoyingly not-drunk Baby. _Odin went by a buncha names back in the day and some of those names maybe had enough of a personality attached to them, so when Odin got turned into Lucifer’s pincushion, maybe this Yule father guy was enough of his own person to survive as a separate god?_

 _A simplified, but fairly accurate summation,_ says Mac.

Coleman groans. _It’s still fucked up. Dude got dead but not-dead ‘cause he had a buncha names? You guys should call me something else from now on so I can live forever._

Somehow, Baby gives the impression that she’s rolling her non-existent eyes. _You’re a hunk of plastic, you moron. You’re functionally immortal._

 _Oh yeah. Sweet._ Coleman enjoys that thought for less than a minute before he thinks of something else. _Oh, but wait. Why’s the Yule dude killing all the party people?_

 _I’m not sure about that,_ Mac admits. _Near as I can tell, Yule is supposed to involve sacrifice, but I don’t think it ever needed to be a human. In everything Sam’s read, people used to kill livestock and then the meat was used for a feast in the name of_ jólfaðr. _It was essentially a party to give thanks to the gods._

In the front seat, Dean seems to have reached a similar conclusion. “One thing still doesn’t make sense. Why’s viking Santa specifically killing these people? He’s targeting parties, which I guess makes sense if he’s pissed he’s not getting his sacrifices, but he’s not even killing the people who’d normally be worshipping him. None of the victims have been of nordic descent, so why specifically them?”

Sam shrugs and reaches for his coffee, taking a sip before answering. “I dunno, maybe he’s just targeting people who’re having parties during Yule because none of them are saying thanks? I mean, think about it. If you were a god who’s used to getting a thank you feast every year, you’d be pretty pissed if people started having feasts and leaving you out of it.”

 _Oh shit._ Coleman tries not to panic, but that just makes him freak out more. _Guys, I’ve been, like, totally shitfaced for— How long was it again, Mac?_

_Four days, nine hours, and—_

_Yeah, four days. What if— Fuck, what if Yule dude counts that as partying and he stabs me? Oh man, I’m gonna die! I’ll be a useless hunk of plastic with holes forever!_

Baby expels an irritated huff through her ventilation system. _You idiot, snap out of it! One, a spilled container of eggnog hardly counts as a feast, and B, if Sam’s right all you’ve gotta do is say thanks._

 _Oh yeah._ Coleman tries to push past the fuzzy feeling to focus his thoughts into words. _Thank you, viking Santa Yule guy for all the stuff you’ve done, even though I dunno what you do. You’re a tough dude with a pointy stick and please don’t stab me. I’m too awesome to die. The end._

Mac interrupts the long moment of silence afterwards. _I can’t be certain, but that might possibly be the worst prayer in the history of religion._

_No, you’re the worst whatever in the history of…shut up._

_Shut up the both of you,_ says Baby. _Someone’s coming._

 _But we’re moving,_ Mac protests. _How can someone—_

 _Shhh!_ interrupts Coleman. No way is he gonna get stabbed because of Mac.

_I heard that!_

Baby screeches to a halt. _I said SHUT UP! There’s something out there!_

While Coleman tries to sort out which way is up from his new position wedged between the front seat and the back, dangling above the floor, Mac asks, _Then why’d you stop?_

_I didn’t. Dean did._

Sam and Dean confer briefly before opening their doors and stepping out. Coleman catches a flash of moonlight reflecting off an angel blade. The doors slam shut behind them.

Eggnog sloshes inside Coleman’s lid, upside down. There’s no way he could put together a coherent thought, let alone figure out a way to save anyone from an approaching god. On the bright side, at least he gets to hang with Mac before he dies.

_You are, quite literally, the last being I ever wanted to spend my dying moments with, Coleman._

_I love you too, Mac._

_I’m so glad you don’t have arms and therefore can’t hug me._

_Oooooh._ Coleman’s imagination helpfully comes up with the many ways arms would improve his existence.

 _Guys,_ Baby so rudely interrupts. _Anyone care to tell the Yule father why he was summoned?_

_Summoned?!_

He’d admittedly been more than a little distracted, but when Coleman tries to hear what’s going on outside, it’s words he hears, not the expected sounds of combat.

“We didn’t summon you,” says Sam.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Dean adds, “But now that you’re here, maybe you could tell us why you’re killing people who just want to have a good time.”

A new voice booms, “They were thieves, taking that which did not belong to them. Descendants of treachery, those who conquered by nefarious means, robbing my worshippers of their culture and replacing it with their own. You ask why I killed them? In your language I believe it is called cultural appropriation. They laughed and sang as they celebrated the feast of my people, stolen and rebranded for a new age. Yule is for thanking the gods and drinking a toast to the valiant dead. There was nothing reverent or thankful in those I slew.”

 _Coleman,_ says Baby, _you summoned him with your awful prayer. Do something!_

On a better day, Coleman’s mind would have been going a mile a minute. Instead, he considers himself lucky to be conscious. (Though he’ll probably change his mind about that if things don’t go well.) _Uh…Dear Yule god. Thank you for all the things you do, even though I dunno what kinda things those are, you’re really fuckin’ awesome at all of it. For Yule this year, can I have no more killing, please? Oh, and arms and legs would be great, but mostly stop fuckin’ killing people._

_We’re screwed._

Outside, the god’s voice interrupts Winchester outrage. “What’s this? You claimed no knowledge of the one who summoned me, yet I hear rudimentary prayer.”

“What the—” says Sam.

“There’s no one else in there,” Dean insists.

Big clomping boots approach and Coleman has no idea what to do. He’s probably going to be skewered for doing things wrong, all because he can’t think straight. _Sorry I fucked up. I love you guys._

Their undoubtedly moving replies are interrupted by the door opening. Yule Odin takes one look at him before stabbing with his spear. Coleman braces himself for the room temperature finality of death, only to feel the spear point shoving him from behind, sending him tumbling out of Baby and onto the snowy road, his lid popping open on impact.

Normally he considers it a point of pride how well his lid stays sealed, but after four days it’s a relief to spill his contents everywhere. _Oh god, thank you,_ he groans.

“What is this?” the Yule father demands, lifting one eggnog-coated boot. “Do you offer libations with your words of praise?”

_Do I what?_

_Say yes,_ Mac practically shouts. _Yes, it’s an offering._

Coleman dutifully repeats Mac’s words, hardly aware of what’s going on besides how happy he is to be free of all that eggnog.

 _Smooth move, cooler,_ says the many-legged horse, which Coleman can see now that he’s outside.

The Yule father nods once and the eggnog gathers itself back into its container inside Coleman, who now sits upright with no recollection of how he got that way. “I accept your offering. May blessings be upon you and your clan for the year to come.”

_Uh, thanks?_

Behind the Yule god, Sam and Dean stand with their angel blades, looking dumbfounded. Shaking his head, Sam lunges forward and stabs the god in the back. He yanks the blade out and golden blood gushes from the wound.

The horse takes a step forward, causing Dean to raise his blade. “Don’t try it, Prancer.”

Sam points at the body with his blade. “Blessings or not, your boss was still killing people. Swear the killings are done and you’re free to go.”

 _I swear it! Don’t kill me. It was_ jólfaðr’s _vengeance, not mine._ The horse nearly trips over its own legs as it backs away nodding.

Coleman can’t help but feel for anyone associated with the one who saved him from eggnog. _Yeah, they can’t hear you, horse dude. You nodded though, so I’d book it if I were you. The Winchesters don’t fuck around._

Still nodding, the horse turns and takes off, flying quickly out of reach. Dean crams his blade through his belt and says, “Well, that was all kinds of fucked up.

“No kidding,” replies Sam as he wipes his own blade on the body of the dead god. “Help me get this guy in the trunk. We can burn him somewhere outside of town. Murderous or not, I think a god probably deserves at least that much.”

 _I can’t see,_ says Mac. _What’s going on out there?_

 _They killed viking Santa and let his freaky reindeer fly away,_ replies Baby.

Coleman would stand taller and puff up his chest if he had one. _I distracted him long enough for Sam to do it, and I got a godly blessing. I told you it wasn’t just a fluke the first time. I’m a hunter._

 _I definitely liked you better when you were a happy drunk,_ Baby groans.

_I was just getting into the holiday spirits._

_Ugh, please don’t start._

_What? You don’t like my puns? That’s rum-believable._

_Coleman,_ says Mac, _I will personally pray to the rest of the Norse gods to tell them you were responsible for Odin’s death if you don’t shut up. There’s a whole pantheon of gods out there that’ll be feeling vengeful when Sleipnir gets back to them._

Coleman firmly clamps his lid down on the rest of his puns. He’s tempted, but doesn’t even say anything when Dean pours the refilled eggnog onto the side of the road.

Baby snickers. _Think after we burn that guy he’ll be nog-nog-noggin’ on heaven’s door?_

Mac groans, but says, _Yes. Yes he will._

As promised, Coleman says nothing, but he’s certain he has the best friends a cooler could want.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! As my gift to you all, I offer you a Coldest Hits fic. [The theme this month](https://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/188929718070/december-2019-prompt-holiday-horror-posting-dates) was to write a horror story set during a festive winter holiday, with bonus points if it's not Christmas. I decided to say screw Christmas and all its cultural appropriation and go directly to Yule.


End file.
